With a muffled grunt, Shields stretched across to pull up the latch of the passenger door. "Excuse the mess. Had a little accident earlier."
Before being able to climb aboard, Bridcutt was obliged to scoop up the spilled objects from the foot mat, cram them back inside the glove compartment.
There was a perplexed frown as he examined the fallen cassette. "Abba. Really?"
"What's wrong with liking Abba?"
From the silent shake of his head, it seemed quite a lot.
The packet of Silk Cut was then held out accusingly towards her like a prosecution lawyer wielding a damning piece of evidence before the jury.
"Thought you'd given up."
"I have, sort of." She looked across as he finally lowered himself onto the passenger seat. "Oh, come on, a sneaky one every now and again doesn't really count, everyone knows that."
Following a grind of the gearstick, they set off into stuttering motion.
"Still don't see why we couldn't have taken my car, sarge."
"Just kind of fancied getting there in one piece I guess."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing."
Quite apart from the constable's gung-ho disregard for speed limits and recommended tail-to-bumper distances, the truth was she just hadn't been able to face the thought of that godawful music he insisted on putting on the tape deck. What was the name of that band he worshipped? The Smiths or some such. Christ Almighty, it was enough to make you want to slash your wrists.
Ahead, the going was snail-paced. It being market day, the central crossroads was reduced to a treacherous, first-gear crawl amidst the tight huddle of stalls and bargain-hunters. Once they were finally through and Shields' squint of concentration had loosened, Bridcutt turned her a glance.
"You shouldn't let him get to you, you know. Gooch, I mean. Different generation to us."
Shields inwardly smiled, encouraged by the fact the young constable viewed her as part as the same generation as himself. Not some bat-crazy aunt-like figure, just some bat-crazy older cousin, that was all.
"Not just a different generation," she remarked, "but a whole different century. He's still living in the nineteenth."
"More like the dark ages."
"Positively prehistoric."
Bridcutt nodded. "Prehistoric, yes. And just like dinosaurs, Gooch and his ilk will soon be extinct, disappear completely from the nation's work places. A woman like yourself, sarge, you just need to stay patient, ride out these next few years. Things'll get better, you'll see."
She scrunched up her face in doubtful reflection. "Took one hell of a meteorite to get rid of the dinosaurs, right?" There was a glance up at the cloudless sky. "Don't see another one heading our way any time soon."
As they headed out of town, the newsreader on the radio filled listeners in on the growing tensions between Libya and the USA. An update which provoked a resigned shake of the head from the passenger seat.
"Former B-movie actor still suffering from an inferiority complex hellbent on sparking World War Three."
In response, Shields attempted a reassuring tone. "Oh, I'm sure it won't come to that." But the truth was, she wasn't sure at all.
It came as something of a relief when the bulletin ended and the inoffensive voice of Lionel Ritchie came dripping through the speaker grill.
Hello. Is it me you're---?
With a sudden swish of his hand, Bridcutt switched it off. "Sorry, just unlistenable."
Shields herself had always quite liked the song, but decided it wise not to verbalise the fact. And so the short journey out to Dunwick was conducted in a companionable silence, both left to contemplate the sheep-dotted passing hillsides, reflect on the task ahead of them.
The missing woman was named Joanne Renshaw, a 28-year-old teacher at the town's primary school. Single, originally from the south-east. It had been a friend of hers - Sharon, a fellow teacher at the school - who'd reported her missing. The pair had arranged to meet in The Rose and Crown at 8pm the previous evening. By half past, and with still no sign of her, Sharon had tipped a coin into the phone box just down the road from the pub. No answer. Half an hour later, she'd taken a walk along Joanne's street, rapped a knuckle to the front door of her house. Again, no answer. Neither had Joanne's car - a red Mini - been visible amongst the line of parked vehicles along the street. Subsequent calls had proven similarly fruitless, and when Sharon had again swung past the house that same morning, the Mini was still missing. The pair had last spoken two days earlier, Monday evening, when they'd planned their pub rendezvous. After a frantic round of phone calls during which none of their circle of mutual friends and acquaintances reported having made contact with Joanne since then, Sharon had had little option other than to make a solemn trip to the local police station.
As they passed the sign announcing that they'd entered Dunwick town limits, Shields could feel her insides ominously clench.
Somehow, she already knew.
She just knew.
*
Other than keeping the culinary traditions of her homeland alive in her tight-fit but immaculately ordered kitchen, Advika Gupta's main pastime consisted in twitching back the living room curtains and spying on what the natives were up to in the terraced street outside. For her, the window equated to the glass eye of some non-indigenous creature dropped into the midst of a hostile pride of wild cats. An eye which was forever curious, alert. Constantly gauging if the foreign behaviours it witnessed were somehow a threat or merely to be pitied.
There was the man who lived two doors down to the left across the road, for example. He was often to be spotted swaying and staggering his way along the street even as early as mid-morning, the glazed eyes happy yet at the same time so terribly, terribly lost. Then a little to the right was that strange, paint-cracked door which sunken-cheeked strangers would slink their way up to and twice slap their palms against. The door would then open, swallow them into the darkness beyond for a minute or two before spewing them back out onto the pavement, their step now hurried, the expression on their faces one of grim relief.
And what about the neighbour who let her dog cock its leg over people's doorsteps? Or the other woman with the half a dozen spoilt, shrieking kids who treated the street as their own personal playground? And then - dear Ganesh! - then there was that pale-as-bird-poop, wobbly-bellied type who on his way home from the pub at night would shout out as he passed their door. Shivay had once translated the words for her: Bloody Pakis! Sod off home! Didn't he even realise they were from India, not Pakistan? It was like if she were to call him whatever derogatory name it was which English people gave to someone from France or Italy or Germany.
Worst of all though was that absolute randee who lived directly across the street from them. The way she'd parade around her bedroom in only her nightwear with the light on and curtains open. Those smiles she'd flash at Shivay whenever they saw each other out in the street - more than just upward curves of the lips but some faint sort of green light, the teasing creak of a door being opened. Oh, Advika had seen the way her husband looked at her, much differently to how he'd ever looked at herself. Vital, illuminated, like a hibernating bear awaking to the spring.
She was intrigued therefore that Wednesday morning when she heard an urgent slam of car doors out on the street, and through the crack between the curtains witnessed that the vehicle's occupants had headed to the woman's front door. One of the figures was a young man with a quiff and slouchy stride, the other a blonde woman around Advika's own age with a bushy, unnatural hairstyle like a character from one of those horrendous American TV series which Prisha insisted on watching. Amongst whatever else it was their raised voices called out as they banged at the door, Advika was able to distinguish the randee's name.
Joanne! Joanne!
She obviously wasn't in though; neither could Advika see that little red car of hers parked along the street. Meanwhile, the two figures were now peering into the living room window, their palms framed around their eyes. Police officers, clearly. That sneaky kind who didn't wear uniforms.
What manner of crime had the randee committed, Advika wondered? Something quite deplorable, she hoped. An offence which carried not only public shame but also a lengthy prison sentence.
The male officer was now sloping off towards the end of the street; he'd been told to check the rear of the property, perhaps. The blonde woman meanwhile turned a curious gaze up and down the road as if attempting to gain a feel for the place - a gaze which eventually focused in on Advika's half-veiled form there behind the curtains. With a purposeful stride, she began making her way across the street.
A little panicked, Advika scuttled out into the hallway. "Prisha!" she called up the stairs. Then again, even louder. "Pri-sha!"
Nothing.
She obviously had those stupid headphone things on which Shivay had bought her for her previous birthday. As Advika hitched her sari and dragged herself up the rickety staircase, a fist began to pummel at the door below. Tough luck; blondie would just have to wait a moment.
It was just as Advika had suspected – her daughter was nodding along to the tinny racket pounding into her ears as she sat there at her desk. Unaware of the sneaky maternal approach, Advika was thus able to exploit the element of surprise in not only snatching away the headphones but also in ascertaining that it wasn't a schoolbook her daughter was flicking through, but instead one of those awful magazines she blew her pocket money on. Fashion, pop music, celebrity gossip. The whole moral wasteland of western culture laid out glossy page after glossy page. Wasn't she supposed to be studying for her forthcoming exams?
A stream of harsh-sounding words were emitted from the midst of Prisha's upturned scowl. English. Why did her daughter always insist on speaking English to her?
With a swished hand, Advika indicated the steady thud of knocks from downstairs.
"Police."
As Prisha pulled herself from her chair and began following Advika down the stairs, her natural air of teenage bolshiness was tempered by a certain curiosity.
"What's it about, mum?"
Hindi this time, Advika was pleased to hear. Pausing for a moment, she turned a shrug back up the stairs. "I don't know exactly. That woman who lives across the street, I think." Well, she could hardly use the word randee in her daughter's company, could she now?
Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Advika pulled the latch, shuddered open the door. The blonde woman's fist was raised, poised to give another thud. There was an apologetic smile, her hazel eyes shifting from Advika to Prisha then back again. An indecipherable volley of words spilled from her mouth as a hand fished into her shoulder bag, pulled out a small leather wallet containing a metal badge.
The apologetic smile was returned as Advika stepped to one side, allowed her daughter to take prominence in the doorway. The detective nodded to herself, as if now understanding.
And thus via her daughter's translation, Advika was to learn of the mounting fears surrounding Joanne Renshaw's recent disappearance. The news was sufficiently grim for Advika to feel a pang of guilt. No woman, not even one who smiled flirtatiously at others' husbands, deserved to just vanish from the face of the earth.
"The detective wants to know when was the last time you saw her, mum."
It had been the previous morning, Advika recalled, a little before nine o'clock. She remembered that as Shivay had been opening the driver's door on his way to work, Renshaw had appeared on the other side of the street, she too with car keys in her hand. Light jacket, jeans, sports shoes. Her chestnut hair had been tied up at the back and there was a small backpack around her shoulders. She'd flashed Mandeep one of those odious little smiles of hers, exchanged a few words with him.
The detective had by this point extracted a notepad from her shoulder bag, was taking a moment to scribble down the details. Glancing back, she tasked Prisha with another question to translate.
"Did she mention to dad where she was going?"
Possibly, but Advika had been at her usual place at the living room window, this closed. Even if she'd been within earshot, she doubted she'd have been able to decipher much anyway. Maybe the detective should pop in at the factory and ask Shivay himself.
In the end, there was no need. As Prisha was translating the response, there came a sudden shout from further down the street. The male detective had reappeared from his investigations at the rear of the Renshaw property; in close proximity was one of Advika's neighbours - the permanently drunk chap from across the road. As he'd made his way back along the street, the officer must have spotted the guy closing his front door behind him, had halted him for a moment to ask the same question the blonde woman had just asked Advika herself: when was the last time he'd seen Joanne Renshaw?
And yes, of course, now Advika remembered. Drunk chap's answer would have been exactly the same as hers. The previous morning, a little before nine. As Mandeep and Renshaw had exchanged their greetings over the roofs of their cars, he'd at that moment been sidling along the pavement, would have heard everything.
The blonde detective had meanwhile spun on her heels, was scampering back towards the car. Her urgent, breathless voice echoed along the street as her colleague scurried over to join her. Though Advika vaguely recognised the place name which peppered their dialogue, it wasn't until the pair had screeched away that Prisha was able to explain its significance. She'd been on a school trip there once when she was at primary school, she recalled. Southwold was one of the entrance points of the Cranwell Tors hiking trail, just a few miles from where that poor woman had been found ripped and bloodied less than a year earlier.
Prisha raised a hand over her mouth at the disquieting implications of it all.
"What if it wasn't just a one-off, mum? What if it's happened again?"
*
After posting the letter, Pitman had taken a slight detour through the market day throngs in search of a flower stall. Upon locating one, he'd emptied his pocket of coins in return for a bunch of bright, freshly cut daffodils. And thus on his return to the farmhouse he'd taken another slight detour, now pulled up outside St Mary's church in Southwold. Lifting the daffodils from the passenger seat of the van, he locked the door behind him. His step as he passed through the limestone entrance arch was uncertain and apprehensive, like a tardy schoolboy sneaking through the gates.
As the village itself, the church was a picture-postcard affair, its castellated tower having represented the spiritual centre of the locality since Anglo-Saxon times. The surrounding graveyard was a cluttered, haphazard affair, an orgy of ghosts. The most recent of the moss-bearded gravestones dated back to the mid-nineteenth century. Burial capacity having been exhausted, one of the Victorian-era parsons had decided to sacrifice a large section of the grounds of the neighbouring vicarage in order that the dear departed of the parish could continue to claim their final resting places in the shadow of the church tower.
Accessed via a wooden gate in the external wall, it was towards the modern annex which Pitman duly trod. The rows of gravestones were much neater here - almost militarily so - their condition more pristine, the engravings easier to read. Unlike the older graveyard, here and there one also caught sight of splashes of bright floral colour at the base of the stones, an occasional figure between the rows in stooped communion with a much-missed loved one.
Pitman headed first to his parents' graves, these located side by side. Spent a quiet, reflective moment placing a single daffodil in each flower grill.
Glenda's stone was further up towards the end of the central gravel pathway and a little to the left. As his parents' graves, it was a small, humble affair, one hemmed in between more ostentatious neighbours to either side. Financial necessity had also dictated that the engraver's costs had been kept to an indispensable minimum:
Glenda Pitman
1/6/1946 - 24/10/1984
Beloved wife and mother
The sight of the dried brown shards around flower grill was shaming: he hadn't paid a visit for almost half a year, he realised.
For several moments, he busied himself pulling out the crumbled remnants of the dead flowers and arranging the daffodils as prettily as he could. Then came the difficult part, the reason his visits were so rare. That awkward celestial silence, as if she were waiting for an apology. Some kind of explanation.
What was he supposed to say to her? Just what in heaven's name were the right words? If indeed they existed at all, then the Lord alone knew he wasn't the type of man to find them.
It came almost as a relief when he was distracted by an approaching crunch of gravel from the central path.
"John, that you?"
Turning to his left, he was confronted by the wide familiar beam of the vicar's wife, Lydia. Oh Christ, it was exactly this he'd been hoping to avoid.
"Thought it was! Almost didn't recognise you."
Hers was a slim, petite figure, the strawberry blonde hair trimmed boyishly short. A dynamic type, always in motion, her eyes permanently engaged with all they chanced upon.
Her beam lingered, a mask to the damning accusation of her words.
"It's been a while."
Even in the head-spinning midst of lambing season, Glenda had ensured that the Pitman family had never missed a Sunday morning service. Since her passing, Billy and he had failed to make it to a single one.
"Busy with the farm," he shrugged.
But they both knew this was only partially true. Little more than a convenient cover-up.
Taking a step closer, Lydia nodded towards the blaze of yellow at the base of the stone. "What lovely daffodils!"
"Glenda's favourite." Pitman's lips twitched upwards in reminiscence. "'Heaven's little trumpets', she used to call them."
Lydia's smile grew nostalgic. "Always did have a wonderful way with words. Still got that poem somewhere which won first prize in the parish competition. Could try and root it out for you if you like."
A swished hand indicated that she needn't trouble herself. Lydia meanwhile took a step closer to squint her eyes to the stone, as if reminding herself of the date of death.
"Can't believe a year and a half has already gone by since she left us. Seems like yesterday."
For Pitman, it seemed much, much longer than eighteen months, in fact. A slow, cruel eternity.
"Tragic," Lydia added. "The way she went, it was just so tragic. Enough to make even the most devout of Christians question God's will." She squeezed her lips together in encouragement. "We must never lose faith though, John. The Good Lord will light our way."
But for Pitman they were just words. Background noise, hot air. How could you lose something you'd never really possessed?
It was then that he became aware of it - the faint droning sound somewhere high above. He craned his neck to the azure expanse of the sky, after a few moments was able to locate the distant speck of a helicopter.
Lydia too had tilted her gaze skywards, a sun-shielding hand raised above her brow as she watched the helicopter draw nearer, ever louder. Its course was north-eastwards, the direction of the Cranwell Tors.
"Blue and yellow," she remarked. "A police one." The hand dropped back to her side, her tone suddenly fearful. "Oh dear Lord, I hope it's not... you know..." But the thought was just too grim for her finish.
"Probably just some hiker twisted their ankle, got stuck on a hillside somewhere."
Pitman's attempt at reassurance was met with an unconvinced nod. He stepped away then, began crunching a steady stride back along the central path.
"Was nice to see you again, John."
"You too, Lydia."
And then instinctively he paused, twisted himself back around to her. Other than himself, the only family Billy had left was a grandmother in a care home who was so far gone she didn't even recognise him anymore.
"Anything happens to me, you'll look after him, right? Billy, I mean. You and your husband. See him right?"
Lydia's face wrinkled in concern. "Of course, John, of course. Is everything... I mean, are you alright?"
He wafted a hand in farewell.
"I'm fine, Lydia. Just fine."